


lift your head (and look out the window)

by baliset



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Baltimore Crabs, Brock and Tosser's Home For Wayward Crabs, Crabby Found Family, Gen, Pitchers Making Breakfast, post-S9DX
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28010148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baliset/pseuds/baliset
Summary: The morning after the Season 9 finals, the fight against the Shelled One’s Pods, and the biggest choke in blaseball history, Brock Forbes wakes up at 8 AM and shuffles into the kitchen to make pancakes.
Relationships: Brock Forbes & Adalberto Tosser & Finn James
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	lift your head (and look out the window)

The morning after the Season 9 finals, the fight against the Shelled One’s Pods, and the biggest choke in blaseball history, Brock Forbes wakes up at 8 AM and shuffles into the kitchen to make pancakes. The rest of the team separated in silence after watching the Shoe Thieves get their asses kicked, a bitter cloud hanging over the locker room as they changed out of their jerseys, but Brock knows they’ll all start pulling up in the driveway and filtering in for breakfast sooner or later. It’s post-season tradition. Win or lose, everyone gets pancakes the next day.

Finn is already in the dining room when Brock crosses through it. She's sitting with her feet up on the table, sucking on a juice box, but she gets up to quietly follow Brock into the kitchen. Brock’s not actually sure if Finn sleeps, though she’s been crashing on his and Tosser’s couch since Combs died. He’s never _seen_ her sleep, at least, but they’re all night owls in this house. Tosser is always up working on some art project or another, and Brock sleeps during the day when he isn't pitching a game.

“Chocolate chip or blueberry?” Brock asks. His laptop is sitting on the counter where he left it last night, and he wakes it up, throws on _Stop Making Sense_. Tosser calls his music taste pedestrian, and he calls Tosser’s music taste pretentious, but at the very least, they can agree on the Talking Heads.

“You’re gonna make both,” Finn says, leaning against the fridge. "Tot likes blueberry."

Tot Fox sleeps in the spare bedroom on the third floor, and has ever since they joined the team. Brock and Tosser have no trouble paying the rent on their own, not with how much their ILB salaries add up to, so their house has become something of a home for wayward Crabs players that don't have a place of their own. It hovers conveniently on the border between the city and county, just close enough that the drive to the Crabitat is manageable. Regardless, Tot's not a part of the pancake discussion, so it's down to Finn.

"Tot's not up yet," Brock says. You get first right of approval.”

“Okay,” Finn says. “Chocolate.”

Brock’s not sure if fish-people can eat chocolate, but he’s not going to question it. He's pretty sure that the fish in the Harbor, at least, eat whatever garbage they want to. Being from the Harbor herself, Finn should be fine. He motions Finn aside to get eggs and milk out of the fridge - and bacon, as an afterthought. He’ll make it in the oven, keep it warm until the rest of the team gets here. Maybe he’ll rope Kennedy into making hash browns, too. Everyone likes those.

“You really think they’re coming?” Finn asks, crossing to look out the window at the driveway. Tosser's motorcycle and Brock's station wagon sit out there, side by side, not driven since before the finals. Brock whisks the pancake batter together and puts the griddle on the stove to get hot.

“They always do,” Brock says. The Crabs have never turned down post-season breakfast, especially not after getting their asses kicked. They’ll show.

He fishes a spoon out of the drawer, and drops the first pancake’s worth of batter onto the griddle, then a second one. Footsteps sound heavily on the stairs, cascading down from the third floor until Tosser drags himself and his oversized claw-arm through the dining room and into the kitchen.

“You’re up early,” Finn chirps, turning away from the window.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Tosser says. He grabs the milk, still out on the counter, and drinks directly from the carton, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once he’s done. "Is this _Stop Making Sense_?"

"Yeah," Brock says. He turns to lean the small of his back against the counter and study Tosser. The bags under their eyes say that Tosser's not lying about the insomnia, but when Brock opens his mouth to say something about it, Tosser gets there first.

"I'm okay," he says, firmly. “Can we not talk about last night?”

“Did we play a game last night?” Brock asks, with wide-eyed mock surprise. “I must have missed it.”

Tosser smirks and crosses the kitchen to fiddle with the coffee pot, nudging Brock's shoulder deliberately with their own on their way past. Brock turns to check on his pancakes, and smiles. He hears the rumble of a car pulling up in the driveway.

**Author's Note:**

> this was one of my tumblr microfic prompts, but i wanted to post it separately because it was my favorite one! i simply love the crabs. the title is from 'in our bedroom after the war' by stars.
> 
> you can find me on twitter @corpserevivers, and elsewhere in the crabitat discord!


End file.
